by Lori Roy
Instead of using the railing to steady myself, I drape the cotton gown over my neck, and pressing my shoulders against the wall, I sidestep down the edges of the steps. The edges don’t creak or sigh like the centers. Except for the third step from the top. This is the hardest to manage. I bend my knees, make myself low to the ground, lean against the wall, and stretch one bare leg across the loose step and reach for the next. I worried I’d be embarrassed by being naked when this day came, but who would see me except perhaps him? Now, in the moment, I don’t have time to feel embarrassed or even sad at what my body has grown into, or rather what it’s still struggling to grow into.
When I reach the bottom step, I slip the gown from around my neck so Christopher won’t see me naked when I open the basement door for him. I thread my arms through the opening, wiggle my shoulders and tug until it slips over my head, and then yank it down over my thin frame. He’s made me wear the same thing for almost four years now, and it barely fits. I never thought I’d be so tall. Mama would be surprised too. You’re so thin, she’d say if she could see me now, but my, look how tall.
Hugging myself with both arms, I don’t turn to look back up the stairs. Instead, I listen. His feet are bare and so his footsteps won’t be heavy, maybe not even very loud. But he won’t know to skip over the third and fifth floorboards and he’ll grab for the railing when he lunges for the stairs. If he’s coming for me, I’ll hear him. I told Christopher to be ready and to wait at the locked door as long as he heard no footsteps, no running, no one shouting my name. I smile because the house is quiet and Christopher will be there, waiting, ready to run.
I know my mistake immediately. Because I take a quick, sharp step toward the dining room instead of continuing with my slow, steady steps, I turn the corner too sharp and catch my toe on a splintered piece of the floorboard. I knew it was there. I’ve seen it just as I’ve seen and memorized every other splintered or loose board that leads from the basement door to the stairs and beyond to the kitchen door that leads outside. I can’t help the cry I let out. I slap a hand over my mouth, but I’ve done it. I’ve always known I would only get one chance, but I thought I’d be picking the day. Even though I’ve been preparing for years, I never thought I’d be forced to run. But now I have, and being forced has made me sloppy.
Something shifts in the air, or maybe I’ve imagined it. I hold my breath, don’t move. If I woke him, he’ll be mixed-up in the head as he struggles to shake off his deepest sleep. He’ll have opened his eyes, maybe stretched and wiped the sweat from under his chin like he always does. Then he’ll roll his head to the side. I usually pretend I’m asleep when he does this because I know he’s pretending that I want to be there with him. And then he’ll push himself up and the soft yellow light filtering through the dirty windows will clear and he’ll know I’m gone. And just as I think it, a floorboard overhead squeals under his weight. I shift direction and run toward the door that leads outside, leaving Christopher behind.
Chapter 48
IMOGENE
Today
Between the time Warren and Imogene leave Tillie’s shop and when they pull up outside Mama’s house, something has changed for Imogene. It’s like a bad taste has settled in her mouth. It’s the taste of these last five years, made all the more bitter after the sweetness of that one moment of hope she felt this morning when she woke to find the boy had made it through the night. He had looked at her like she mattered and he needed her and his mama needed her, and that need has to be bigger than Imogene wallowing in her own fear and in her own messed-up life.
As Warren puts his car in park, his phone rings. He rests a hand on Imogene’s knee so she won’t leave and takes the call. She pushes his hand away but doesn’t get out of the car because she wants to hear what he says. Mostly, he listens, and when he hangs up, he tells Imogene what she already figured. There has been no sign of anyone, alive or dead, at the old house or in the burned-out field, and given that Imogene saw no one other than the boy, they won’t risk trying to access the basement, at least not for now. Lastly, he tells her they’re still checking with all the surrounding hospitals, calling as far as Augusta and Macon.
“I believe him,” Imogene says. “The boy, he said his mama always comes back.”
The drive ahead that leads to the old house is quiet, no more cars coming and going. The men who had been here looking for Christopher’s mama have left or moved on to a wider search.
“Not saying I don’t believe him,” Warren says. “But think about the timing. Your daddy died, what, on Thursday afternoon? And if we’re to believe your daddy was keeping those two, he must have taken the boy’s mother Thursday morning at the latest. By lunchtime that same day, he was dead. It’s been four days, maybe more, that the boy has been on his own.” He starts to reach out again but stops and pulls his hand back. “He’s a child. He’s scared. No telling what’s the truth or what he’s been taught to say. That boy’s mama, she’s either run off or she’s dead.”
“What if it wasn’t just Daddy?” Imogene says, trying to shake off the sight of Natalie Sharon’s face. “Someone started that fire. Someone like Tim Robithan.”
Warren lets out a long breath. “Lord knows I wish I didn’t have to deal with the likes of Tim Robithan, and I believe your daddy owed them a sizeable sum, but doesn’t mean they’re tangled up with that boy. Doesn’t mean they started that fire, either. Hell, they helped put it out.”
“Then who?”
“Maybe nobody,” Warren says. “You said yourself someone had rigged up the electricity down there. Best guess, boy lit something or left something running that he shouldn’t have. I think you’re chasing a ghost.”
“Garland was covering for Daddy,” Imogene says, shaking her head at Warren’s theory. “Somehow he was covering up what Daddy was stealing. Tim, the others too I’m guessing, they know that.”
“That ain’t good news for Garland,” Warren says, nodding as if he already suspected as much. “This ain’t the kind of thing that’s going to court.”
“Because the Knights’ll take care of it themselves? That what you mean?”
Warren nods. “Like you said, he owed them boys money, enough he was willing to sell off your mama’s property. I’d damn sure sell my house and everything in it to make things whole if it was me. But your daddy couldn’t do that with a boy and his mama locked up down there. Jesus, I hate to say it, and it’s just a theory until we got a body, but that’s my guess. He had to clear them out so he could sell.”
Imogene pushes open her door and looks up at the house.
“I’ll check in with you later,” Warren says, popping the car back into drive. “Jo Lynne’ll see to the boy, and you ought to think on telling your mama.”
“Thanks,” she says, sorry now that she shoved him away. “For taking me to Tillie’s and all. For being here.”
“Imogene,” Warren says as she goes to step out of the car, “I ain’t trying to take your husband’s place.”
She settles back in her seat, looks straight ahead. She should tell him she knows that and that the problem isn’t him, it’s her. It’s the guilt of not being in that car with Russell and Vaughn five years ago and of beginning to care for Warren in a way she never thought she’d care for another man, but she can’t manage to say any of it.
“I’m just trying to get you in bed is all,” he says.
At this, she laughs, grateful he made a joke and saved her from a conversation she isn’t ready to have. Thanking him again, she steps out of the car, pushes the door closed, and watches as he drives away. Once his car has disappeared, she turns her face into the wind to clear her hair from her eyes. It’s picked up since they left the house, and the sky is dark off to the west. A coolness brushes over her, which means rain is coming.
Inside the kitchen, Jo Lynne has cleaned up all the dishes, and the counters shimmer from the scrub-down she gave them. At the table, Mama is playing a hand of solitaire. It’s always been Mama and Jo Lynne’s wa
y . . . they can be alongside each other if they’re cooking or cleaning or talking about what’s needed at the grocery store, but otherwise, they are together in silence. Mama doesn’t want to hear the things Jo Lynne thinks or does. Mama’s surely like Imogene in that way. Hearing those things makes them real, and that’s both sad and frightening. When the door opens, Mama looks up and presses a finger to her lips.
“Our boy is sleeping,” she says.
While Jo Lynne is still wearing the robe she wore over last night, Mama has changed clothes and done her hair up. She’s curled and back-combed it, more than she usually does, and from the smell of it, she’s sprayed it down good with hair spray. She wears a lightweight knit sweater, pink to brighten her face, and she’s dabbed gloss on her lips. It’s Christopher. He’s made her happy. After just a few hours, moments, really, that she’s spent with him, he’s made Mama happy. It’s a reminder that Imogene isn’t the only one who lost Russell and Vaughn. Five years, and this is the first time that’s occurred to her.
“You should lie down too,” Mama says as she meets Imogene at the door and rests a cool hand on her cheek. She trails a finger along the thin scratch on Imogene’s face that’s nearly faded. “You look tired. Is everything okay?”
Imogene nods. “Do you know about the fire, Mama? Has anyone told you?”
Mama smiles. “Heavens yes. We’re not to worry about that. We’ve got our boy to think about.”
“I have smothered chops in the oven and fried corn on the stove,” Jo Lynne says, untying an apron from around her waist and draping it over a chair. “Mama’s right, you should sleep while the boy’s sleeping. Maybe eat something when you get up. Garland’ll be back soon. He didn’t think we should be staying here alone. And then we’ll all go to town in the morning, together.”
Imogene holds up a hand to stop Jo Lynne from saying anything more. It’s too much to think about just now. Instead, she lets Mama guide her toward the sofa.
“But you’re doing okay, Mama?” she says. “Not upset about the old house?”
“That old place won’t be missed,” Mama says, taking a quilt from the back of the sofa and draping it over Imogene once she’s lain down. “And isn’t it nice having a little one in the house again?”
Digging her hand in her front pocket, Imogene pulls out Mama’s necklace. “I have something for you,” she says, letting it hang from one finger. “Turned up at Tillie’s.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Mama says, cupping her hands as Imogene drops the necklace into them. “Would you look at that? This really is a day for miracles.”
Jo Lynne tugs on her robe’s belt as she leans in to take a look over Mama’s shoulder. “Someone tried to sell it at Tillie’s?” she asks.
“Something like that,” Imogene says.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” Mama says, slipping the necklace over her head. She fingers the stone, staring down on it for a few moments before seeming to remember Imogene. “Now, no more out of you. You get some sleep.”
Mama is right. Imogene is tired. She’ll close her eyes, at least for a bit. Mama is happy now that Christopher is settled and not angry anymore with Imogene for not taking care of him like she should. She even seems to have forgotten about the wire she’d been so intent on having removed. Imogene can take a few moments to rest, and when she wakes, Warren will be back and he’ll know what to do next.
Chapter 49
BETH
Before
I always knew, when this day came, I’d have a decision to make. Should I zigzag this way and that, cut a crooked path through the pampas grass tall enough to hide me, or run hard and straight to get as far from the house and from him as possible. As I stumble out the back door, letting the screen slam since I already know he’s heard me and is following close behind, I zigzag because I don’t want to get too far from the house and Christopher, who is still inside.
Running between the rows, I hold my arms close so I don’t stir the thick blades, but they still cut into my shoulders and thighs. A dried, sharp end pokes one eye. I blink to clear it. The pink feathery blooms from last autumn have browned and bits of them scatter. I spit the pieces from my mouth, turn my face to protect my eyes. I always knew I’d be small enough to pass soundlessly between the rows and that he wouldn’t, and I had hoped for light to see by, but now, knowing he’s right behind me, I am glad darkness is already settling in. The gravel cuts into my bare feet, but I can’t feel it. I drive my knees forward, push hard off my right foot to change directions. I run for a few more rows, drive my left foot into the ground, stumble and bite my lip so I won’t cry out at the pain when my ankle buckles, and I shoot off in another direction. Already I’ve lost the house. I was supposed to keep track. Count my steps and turn left first and then right. Left and right so I would always know where I was.
I used to get lost sometimes when I hid from Mama in the pampas grass that grew behind our house. It was a game we played. I would hide. And Mama would try to find me. I loved it best late in the summer when the feathery pink blooms towered over the field. But sometimes, Mama stopped looking, and I’d sit in the grass, waiting for her and watching those pink, feathery blooms float above me, and maybe I’d fall asleep. When I finally found my way back home, Mama wouldn’t remember I had been hiding. She’d kiss me on the cheek and say, time for supper, as if I’d been there all along.
When the screen door flies open again, banging against the side of the house, I drop onto my hind end, pull my knees to my chest, and hug them with both arms. I bury my face and try to quiet my breathing. I hadn’t planned for what the running would do to my breath. There is no slap when the screen door closes, so he must have held it and slowly shut it instead of letting it slam. He’s wanting to be quiet. I swallow and concentrate on the inhale and the exhale. I knew the fear would change me. It might make me better. It might make me worse. I read about it in one of Imogene’s textbooks she used when she was still in college. Now that I’m here, in the middle of it, every part of me is shaking and my breathing and heartbeat won’t slow. Hearing would be my best chance. Hearing him before he hears me. But he knows that too. No footsteps cross the worn patch of ground outside the house’s back door. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t order me back inside. He’s listening for me just like I’m listening for him.
He’ll think I ran toward the main house that is to the west, over what Eddie always called a ridge, but I don’t know how far away it is or how to get around the lake, so that was never where I planned to run. Instead, I ran toward Stone Mountain. Somewhere off to the east, just beyond where I can see, it springs out of the horizon. That was always my plan. It was the one place I knew and the thing that could anchor me.
When he shouts my name, barks it out into the field that stretches farther than I have ever been able to see, I can’t stop myself from scrambling backward. I fall into the stand of grass behind me, struggle to get my feet back on the ground, but each time I try to push off the thick, brittle grass, my hands slip and I can’t get my balance. I stop pushing and roll instead of trying to stand. I roll and then roll again until I land on my hands and knees. I half crawl, half run deeper into the field, farther from the house. He’ll have heard, and just as I think it, just as I regain my footing and am moving silently again, the grass behind me begins to rustle.
I take a left and right and another left and I’m running directly east. I only know because that’s where Stone Mountain lies. I drop to the ground again, tuck myself into the grass. I pull my knees in close and bury my mouth there to muffle my breathing, but I keep my eyes open. I’ve stayed hidden from him long enough that it’s almost dark, and that is protecting me. I was wrong to think I should run when the days were longer. The dark is more on my side than his.
It’s always been my plan to stay hidden as long as I had to. I’ve waited seven years. I can wait seven hours, seven days if I must, until he gives up and leaves. In the early years, I would have been alone. And then after Christopher came along, I k
new I’d have to wait until he got older. We started practicing when he was three, practicing and preparing for this day because I thought he’d be with me. In between clearing breakfast dishes and taking our pretend walk to school, we would sit together, side by side, our knees hugged to our chests, our faces tucked down. He was allowed to hold up one finger to tell me was feeling brave and good. Two fingers would mean he was scared and I would kiss them so he’d be brave again. That’s all. Nothing else. No talking. We couldn’t giggle, not even when we practiced. We’d have to be still, like statutes. I showed him pictures in one of our books. Still like this no matter what happens or how scared we feel.
He’s calling my name now over and over. He’s cold, walking west of the house and away from me, and I can barely hear his voice. That’s how Mama and I would play. You’re getting colder, I would shout. Or hotter. Hotter. Hottest of all. But he’s cold and getting colder. The night air swallows my name as he shouts it. I was wrong. He didn’t hear me fall. And then he gets warmer, must be walking down the ridge, back into the field. I squeeze my eyes closed and imagine I’m part of the tall stalks. I know all about them. I’ve studied pampas grass in a gardening book he once brought. It usually contains itself, won’t generally take over. But given the right conditions, it’ll spread.
His voice grows louder, and the tall crop of grass that has infested the field rustles as he passes through it. The rustle is distant, like waves far out in the ocean must be. Rolling closer and closer to shore, the rustle grows louder. And now the waves are crashing on the shore. I’m squatted to the ground, am hugging my knees tight. Warmer still and then he’s hot.
